by Angela Henry
“Oh, I didn’t realize she wasn’t from here. Where’s she from?”
“Somewhere down South. Let me think. Macon. That’s it, Macon, Georgia.”
“How’d your mother feel about Diane?”
“Couldn’t stand her. She would have tried to put a stop to the relationship but she had her hands full with me and Raymond Hodge,” she said, wincing.
“She used to hate it when Ben and Diane would come over for dinner. Mother loved to cook, and Diane was always on some diet or so she claimed. She’d load her plate up with food and then never eat it. Would just pick at it and run her mouth about stuff no one wanted to hear about. Then later on I’d catch her in the kitchen stuffing her face when she thought no one was around. It was really weird, like she was too embarrassed to eat in front of us. She’s still that way.”
“Maybe she’s bulimic. You ever catch her throwing up?”
“No, I just think she’s weird, not to mention self-centered, arrogant, and a snob. It’s all about appearances with Diane. Do you know she never buys anything on sale because she wants to brag about how much she pays for everything?”
The cheapskate in my soul winced at that foreign concept. Finding bargains was half the fun of shopping, as far as I was concerned. If it’s not on sale, clearance, at a garage sale, or received as a gift, then I wasn’t meant to have it. I haven’t gone the freebie route like Mama, but who knows.
“So, what does she do all day?”
“She goes to the country club, she shops; she belongs to the Willow Women’s League, and they do charity work for the homeless and the various AIDS foundations.”
“Diane cares about the homeless?” I laughed and tried to envision Diane handing out designer blankets and baskets of gourmet food.
“Are you kidding? Diane’s rich friends at the country club belong to the Willow Women’s League, that’s why she joined. When I was still living over on Archer Street, Diane came over to see me one day. I was out working in the backyard. While she was there, old Crazy Frieda came down the alley looking for cans. Diane saw her and went off. Started yelling and screaming at the poor woman, telling her to get out of my trash and go get a job. It was really embarrassing. I felt so bad I started leaving a bagful of cans out for her every week. So in answer to your question, no, Diane doesn’t care about the homeless.”
I felt compelled to tell Bernie the truth about Elfrieda Barlow and her homeless status. Just like almost everyone else, she had no idea.
I was confused and more than a little worried. I knew I needed to go to Detectives Harmon and Mercer with everything I knew. But what I knew pointed straight to Joy. She had no way of telling them anything different at this point. I was fairly certain Bernie was innocent. I owed it to her to tell the police. I headed back to the hospital. I wanted to see if there was any change in Joy’s condition before I went to the station.
I ran into Joy’s aunt Clara in the parking lot. She was elated. Joy had regained consciousness. She could hardly stand still to talk to me.
“I’d just walked into the house from seeing Joy and the phone rang and it was the hospital telling me she was waking up!”
She practically ran ahead of me into the hospital. I followed close behind her. When we reached the intensive care unit, Clara Mills went straight into her niece’s room. Not being a family member, I wasn’t allowed in. I watched through the window to Joy’s room, which had until now been closed off by mini-blinds. Joy looked very tiny in the big bed. Her face was swollen almost beyond recognition. Both eyes were black and opened to slits. Her head was wrapped in bandages and her leg was in a cast. Her aunt sat next to her, held her hand, stroked her cheek, and talked softly to her. I had the feeling Joy knew everything that was going on, even though she just stared straight ahead the whole time.
I sat in the waiting room for about twenty minutes while Mrs. Mills talked to Joy’s doctor. When she came out, she told me the doctor thought there might be some brain damage but Mrs. Mills, however, was hearing none of it. There was nothing anyone could say that would convince her that Joy wasn’t going to be just fine in due time.
“Mrs. Mills,” I said before she turned to go back into Joy’s room, “does anyone have any idea why Joy was out so late on Commerce Road?”
“No, I have no idea. I asked that friend of hers, Cory. She claims she doesn’t know either. It’s probably something we’ll never know. The doctor said that Joy may not have any memory of even getting up that morning, let alone why she went out that night.” She went back into Joy’s room, happy in the knowledge that her niece was on the road to recovery, while I was on my way to do something that was going to cause her more grief. I felt like crap.
I left the hospital and went straight to the police station. I was told that Detectives Mercer and Harmon weren’t there. I left a message for one of them to contact me. I went through the drive-through at Wendy’s and got a burger and fries. I parked and ate in my car. Willow Federal Bank was across the street, and I watched the people who had business at the bank come and go. I was finishing up my burger when I noticed a man and a woman come out of the bank. I was shocked when I saw who the two people were. It was Carl and Vanessa.
I watched them walk over to Carl’s car. They were deep in conversation. I was too far away to see the expressions on their faces. Then Vanessa reached into her purse and pulled out what appeared from where I was sitting to be a white envelope. The kind you get from the bank. I watched as she handed it to Carl. He folded it in half and put it in his suit pocket. Then they embraced for what seemed like an eternity but was probably only a minute. Carl bent down and gave Vanessa a kiss on the lips. Then they both got into their separate cars and drove away—in opposite directions I was pleased to notice. The whole encounter took less than five minutes, but it was enough to make me almost physically ill.
What were they doing together? I could only assume she was giving him money, hence the visit to the bank. I’d only been out on one date with Carl Brumfield. I don’t know why I should be so upset over seeing him with his ex-wife. I didn’t know what was more upsetting to me, the thought that Carl was still in love with Vanessa or the thought that what I’d just witnessed had something to do with Jordan’s murder. Why did Vanessa give Carl money? Was she paying him off for something, like killing Jordan for instance, or paying him to keep quiet about knowing that she did it? I couldn’t ask Lynette what they were doing in there. She and Greg had both played hooky from work and had gone to a Reds game. I don’t know how long I sat in stunned silence before I drove home.
ELEVEN
When I got home, I pulled out a legal pad and wrote down what I knew so far. I put down five names on the page: Bernie, Vanessa, Carl, Joy, and Jordan. First I listed everything I knew about Jordan: he was from Cleveland, was an only child, parents killed when he was twelve, went to live with his grandmother in Columbus. His grandmother was rich and spoiled him. He used women mainly for money, and he may have attended Morehouse. He was engaged to Joy Owens’s mother, stood her up at the altar, and ran off with her money. He came to Willow more than a year ago. Why? Moved in with Bernie, was involved with Vanessa Brumfield, and was killed in Vanessa’s rented house. How did he get in?
Next was Bernie: She was in love with Jordan. She found out about Jordan and Vanessa by anonymous letter. She threatened to end the relationship if he didn’t break it off with Vanessa. She was in the vicinity of the crime scene at the time of the murder. Something mysterious happened to a man Bernie was involved with in the past. What really happened to Raymond Hodge, and how well did I really know Bernie?
Then came Vanessa Brumfield: She was separated from her husband and was involved with at least two other men, Jordan and Dr. Ted Adamson. She was pregnant. But whose baby was it? She was out of town the day Jordan was killed. Her father is dying, so why risk leaving town? She may have been away having an abortion. Was Jordan blackmailing her? Could she have had an accomplice? Why was she giving Carl money?
Joy Owens was angry
and deeply disturbed over her mother’s suicide. Rita Owens killed herself over the loss of her business, money, and being left at the altar by Jordan Wallace. Joy was stalking Jordan, sending anonymous letters to Bernie. Who else got one? Joy vandalized Jordan’s car. She painted a picture of Jordan’s murder scene. She had to have been there. Did she see who killed him? Who ran her down, and could it have anything to do with Jordan’s murder? I suddenly remembered how happy she looked when she came into the restaurant the day after Jordan was killed. Could she have been an accomplice who had to be silenced?
Carl Brumfield. What did I really know about Carl? His wife, Vanessa, left him. Why? He and Vanessa had been seen arguing loudly by one of her neighbors. What was it about? Did he know about her and Jordan? He and Vanessa had been planning to start a family when she left him. Had he found out she was pregnant by another man and killed that man—Jordan? Why was Vanessa giving him money?
I was more confused than ever. I sat around my apartment wondering if I should take Mama’s advice about Carl and break our date for Saturday. Then I started thinking about his smile, the way he smelled, and our goodnight kiss. I felt more comfortable with this man than I had a right to feel, given the circumstances. I was saying a silent prayer that he wasn’t involved as I drifted off to sleep on my couch.
The phone woke me up around five thirty. I answered and got an earful of Mama babbling something about Bernie and to turn my TV on. It took her three attempts before I grasped what she was saying and groggily turned on my set to the Channel 4 news. I sat stunned as I watched bouffant-haired news reporter Tracy Ripkey reporting live from Bernie’s house. My stomach knotted up as I watched a stony-faced Bernie being led away in handcuffs after having been arrested for the murder of Jordan Wallace.
I listened as Tracy Ripkey went on to say that the arrest was based on evidence found in the suspect’s home and by a sworn statement given by a former employee of the suspect’s late mother. Footage was then shown of a trim black man in his early fifties coming out of the police station. He was dressed in a cream suit and a light blue shirt and was identified as one Raymond Hodge of Atlanta.
The reporter had gone on to say that Raymond Hodge had fled Willow in fear of his life after an affair with Bernice Gibson had gone sour and she had allegedly attacked him with a paperweight, seriously injuring him. As I watched Raymond Hodge dodge the reporters and microphones being stuck in his face, he turned and stared directly into the camera and said, “No comment.” I got a good look at him and almost fell off the couch. Even though he was cleaned up, had gotten a haircut, and was in a suit, I was looking at the same man who had broken into Joy’s apartment.
I heard squawking on the phone and realized Mama was still on the line.
“I just don’t believe it!” she kept saying over and over. Neither could I.
“Why on earth are they arresting her over what some foolish man said happened more than twenty years ago. Althea told me about Bernie and that man. I’d have knocked him in his head too!”
“Did you know about Bernie hitting him in the head with that paperweight?” I asked in amazement.
“Yes, I knew all about that. Althea said Bernie knocked him out cold. He had a cut on his scalp that bled like crazy. She took him to the emergency room. They stitched him up. She gave him five thousand dollars not to press charges and a job referral with a real estate company in Atlanta and told him to get out of town. He took the money and ran.”
“Did you know Bernie thought all these years that she may have killed that man? How could Althea do that to her?”
Mama sighed wearily.
“Children don’t come with an owner’s manual, you know. You do the best you can and hope and pray your kids will turn out okay. I agree that Althea didn’t handle that situation very well. She could have at least told Bernie what she’d done. But it’s hard to watch someone you love making a big mistake. She thought she was doing the right thing. I think she was afraid Bernie would run off to Atlanta if she knew where he was.”
Well it had all come full circle now, I thought. I wondered how Raymond Hodge even knew about Jordan’s murder if he’d been in Atlanta all this time. The raggedy, long-haired drunk I had encountered in Joy’s apartment bore little resemblance to the polished, sharply dressed man I’d just seen on television. But I knew it was him. He had that same wild trapped look in his eyes that I’d seen in Joy’s apartment.
“They need to be arresting that Vanessa Brumfield. If they knew what they was doing, they’d be looking at her real close,” Mama said indignantly.
“All right, what do you know that I don’t?”
“Well, I was in Denny’s today with my ladies senior circle from church. You know we go out to lunch every month. It was Mattie Lyons’s turn to pick the restaurant this month. We were shocked because she usually picks Ponderosa. The chicken wings were almost raw the last time we went there. Anyway, our waitress was this tired, pitiful—and I mean pitiful—looking white woman. Kept getting everybody’s order wrong. Looked like she was going to cry at any moment. She finally did cry when Donna Ivory yelled at her for putting tomato on her sandwich when she definitely said no tomato. Donna’s allergic to tomatoes, you know. Her lips swell up as big as her behind if she eats any, and she gets these big ugly red hives all over her body—”
“Mama please,” I begged. It took her forever to tell a story, and the last mental image I needed was of Donna Ivory’s butt-sized lips.
“All right, missy, don’t rush me! As I was saying, our waitress ran off crying to the restroom. Another waitress came over and corrected all our orders. I asked if the poor woman was okay, and she pulled up a chair and started telling us all the woman’s business. It seems our waitress had been none other than Edna Cox, Denton Cox’s wife and Vanessa Brumfield’s stepmother, and she has plenty to cry about. Not only is her husband dying but she just found out that Vanessa is the sole beneficiary of a two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar life insurance policy. All poor Edna’s going to get is the small house they live in and all her husband’s debts. Vanessa has made it clear she’s not sharing.”
“You’ve got to be kidding!” Now I knew why Vanessa had left Carl. Her father must have promised to make her his sole heir if she left him, not knowing how soon that would be. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars would make a sizable down payment on a house in Pine Knoll. It would also entice a man like Jordan Wallace. Vanessa would be a single professional woman with her own money, just like Bernie and just like Rita Owens had been. I wondered if Jordan had known about Vanessa’s inheritance and found out the hard way that she wasn’t sharing.
“We’re not looking at any other suspects at this time, Miss Clayton,” said Detective Trish Harmon with what I swore was a smirk. I’d gone to see her the next morning and was waiting for her when she arrived at the station.
I had laid out everything I knew, or rather almost everything, to Detective Harmon, and she wasn’t biting. As far as she was concerned, Joy Owens could have painted that picture based on the newspaper’s description of the crime scene and a little imagination. She also pointed out that even if Joy had been stalking Jordan, there was absolutely no proof. The one note that was found had only one set of prints, mine.
As for Vanessa, she had an alibi that had been verified and, as far as the detective knew, there was no crime in being left two hundred and fifty thousand dollars by your dying father.
I glared at her across her desk, which was as neat, orderly, and anal as she was. Today she was dressed in a dark brown pantsuit and a white high-button blouse. There was a picture of her with a dark- haired bespectacled man who had his arm around her waist. I almost didn’t recognize her. Her hair was long and dark brown and she was actually smiling. She noticed me looking at the picture.
“That’s my husband, Paul, and me. He died ten years ago. Car accident.”
When Paul Harmon died he must have taken a piece of his wife with him. She barely resembled the happy woman in the
picture. I momentarily felt a stab of pity for Trish Harmon. It quickly disappeared with her next statement. “We have strong evidence that Bernice Gibson killed Jordan Wallace. She knew he was cheating on her with her tenant Vanessa Brumfield. She lured him over to her rented house on Archer with a note. We now know she borrowed a car from a coworker, left work, let herself into the house, and killed Mr. Wallace. The rest you know. We have a witness who can testify that Ms. Gibson is a violent person.”
“Now wait a minute,” I said. “What are you talking about? What note?” I hope she didn’t notice that I hadn’t asked whose car Bernie had borrowed.
“Do you honestly think I’d share that information with you?” Harmon’s phone rang and she turned to answer it.
I looked past her and noticed a slip of paper enclosed in a baggie sitting in a plastic tray on the table behind her desk. I got up, quickly reached past her, grabbed the baggie, and looked at the note. It was a half sheet of lined notebook paper that looked like it had been in the trash. It had what looked like coffee stains on it. There was some writing on it in a strange, pale-pink shiny ink. The note read:
be at my place at eight and don’t be late!
It was signed “love, v.” The handwriting was a childish looping scrawl.
Harmon ended her call and turned to see me with the baggie in my hand. She jumped out of her chair and tried to snatch it out of my hand but I took a step backwards.
“Are you out of your mind?” she hissed and looked around the room to make sure no one had witnessed her letting evidence get away from her.
“Are you trying to tell me Bernie wrote this note? This isn’t even her handwriting, and what kind of ink is this?”
“Actually, it’s lipstick,” she said, sighing and snatching the baggie from my hand, “and of course Ms. Gibson would have disguised her handwriting to make Mr. Wallace believe the note was from Vanessa Brumfield. We’ve already obtained a handwriting sample from her. I’m sure the results will be conclusive.”
